


Bleu Céleste

by vetiverite



Series: Grand Pas de Deux [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet AU, Dancer Fíli, Established Relationship, Historical AU, Imperial Russian AU, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nobleman Kíli, Unrelated Fíli and Kíli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: A domestic mishap leads to deeper understanding between two soulmates.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: Grand Pas de Deux [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646743
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	Bleu Céleste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).



> This is a prequel to Grand Pas de Deux, taking place about 2 years earlier, shortly after Filipp ("Fili") has moved into the apartment that Kyril ("Kili") has obtained to give them some domestic privacy.

_My love, I’m here!..._

Silence.

_My love?_

Kíli hesitated in the doorway of Fíli’s bedchamber. In those early days of tenancy in the Liteyniy Avenue apartment, he still felt very much like a guest. Fíli, he knew, was jealously possessive of his new domain; moreover, he did not like to be caught off guard— even by the love of his life. 

Fortunately, requesting permission to enter comes naturally to a military man. _Lipa? Moy miliy?_ Kíli called again. _I’m early, I know, but may I come in?_

Again, no reply— but a faint sound of splashing betrayed Fíli’s hiding place. 

A closed bathroom door met Kíli’s eye as he peered around the corner. _Ah!_ Shaving, perhaps? As Fíli had yet to hire a valet (and might never, given his bashfulness), he did everything himself, even hanging up and brushing down his own garments at day’s end. He’d wanted to make his own bed, as well— a desire summarily nipped in the bud by Mme. Petrovna the housekeeper, who thought the mere idea unseemly.

 _I can sleep in it, but nothing else?_ Fíli asked Kíli, who replied, _Oh, no; it has other purposes._

Kíli began to divest himself of his officer’s tunic. Down the row of brass buttons he went – twelve in all, from chin to hip – musing all the while about the evening ahead.

They’d stay in; that had already been agreed. Forget the social round. Mme. Petrovna (who doubled as cook) would give them supper – kasha, cutlets, honey cake; the homelike fare that Fíli loved – after which they would disappear back upstairs. The remainder of the night would be spent curled together in the highbacked sofa facing the hearth. A crackling fire, sherry and biscuits, soft talk interspersed with long cozy silences… and then the soft haven of their bed and all the joys that waited there…

But when Kíli turned to toss the jacket over the back of the nearest armchair, he saw that the evening might not be so seamless.

A heap of shattered porcelain lay on the side-table.

Fíli kept his bedchamber as tidy as a temple. Years of institutional living had left him with a mania for order; he found great peace in having everything in its place with no loose ends showing. The smallest change in the scenery spoke magnitudes. One could literally divine Fíli’s inner mood by a stray thread.

By that standard, the bright-colored fragments of porcelain had the quality of a confessional scream: _I did this._

_Oh, no,_ Kili whispered. _Oh, Lipa._

Even deconstructed, the piece was immediately recognizable. Pre-Sèvres Vincennes, with fruit and flowers hand-painted on gold-edged white clouds floating upon a _bleu c_ _éleste_ ground, the ewer had served six generations of Durinev princes who had scarcely paid it any notice. Along with its matching basin, it had until recently (that very morning, in fact) resided atop a simple mahogany _ath_ _énienne_ that terrorized its current owner. 

_That fucking table’s going to tip over someday,_ insisted Fíli, who understood balance better than most. And today, it finally had.

 _He did try to warn me,_ thought Kíli. _Poor Fíli— at least now I know why he’s shut himself in._

The things that upset Fíli often seemed strange to others. By the same token, things that would unnerve anyone else failed to move him. He could describe with utter dispassion the unthinkable abuses suffered in his childhood, then – moments later – stare in terror at a strange cast of light or tremble uncontrollably at the echo of a stranger’s raised voice. Though he wouldn’t speak of the reason, _things breaking_ galled him in particular. It didn’t matter what broke, or who did the breaking. The sudden plunge, the loud sound, the burst of fragments in all direction, the _destruction_ … The reverberations would last for hours, if only in his mind.

Some people find relief from fright in pacing, talking, smoking. Fíli took baths. _Long_ baths. Depending on the intensity of his distress, he might soak until his lips turned blue—and who could stop him? Private baths, doors that locked, personal rights: these were luxuries unknown to the pupils of the Ballet Academy. Now that he had them all, Fíli guarded them ferociously.

Not for all the Sèvres in the world would Kíli force that closed door. Instead he came and rested his cheek against it. _Lipa, you don’t have to tell me anything yet,_ he said. _But at least let me know your head’s above the water._

A sniff, a splash, a furtive cough. As acknowledgments went, it neither beckoned nor banished, but Kíli chose to take it as a hopeful sign.

_Thank you, love. Thank you._

He’d wait. It didn’t matter how long; it was enough simply to be here. He’d slogged through mountains of paperwork and sat through hours of tedious regimental meetings just to stand outside this door. Eventually it would open, and there would be Fíli, beloved Fíli. 

For so great a felicity as that, what man alive would balk at waiting ten more minutes?

_____________

 _It’s unlocked,_ said Fíli. That was to say, his mind and soul were finally ready to be entered; therefore, so was the room.

A small lamp-lit chamber paved floor to ceiling with tawny Egyptian marble, the bath housed the following items: tub, towel bench, corner stove, sink, vanity, chaise-longue. Only that; no more. A ceiling-to-floor silk gauze curtain divided the room unequally, stranding the chaise alone near the door.

As he let himself in, Kili gravely recited:

_There was a Door to which I found no Key;  
_ _There was a Veil past which I could not see…_

_Again with that?_ Fíli complained, having heard the lyric before. But Kíli would not be deterred from teasing:

_Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee  
_ _There was—and then no more of Thee and Me._

A derisive snort, Fíli’s way of saying, _Ridiculous; there will always be more of Thee and Me._

Sometimes Fíli and Kíli bathed together— laughing as they squeezed into the tub, their antics leaving its four gilded claw-feet submerged in soapsuds. But when Fíli began a bath alone, he wanted to _remain_ alone – at least symbolically – until its end. If Kíli wished to chat, he must keep to his side of the curtain.

Dropping down onto the chaise longue, he called out, _Difficult day, moy miliy?_

 _Yes._ Low and morose: _You saw?_

_I saw._

A mite defiant, now: _Sorry._

 _There’s no need,_ Kíli replied. _Things break. How was rehearsal?_

 _Fedya and I quarreled about the Adagio._ Water droplets pattering, squeezed from a sponge. _…I said he bungled the pass, and Mathilde took his side._

_‘Mathilde’? Not ‘Matty’?_

Fíli’s plaintive voice echoed against the marble walls: _Not if she’s going to fight with me._

 _C’est juste,_ Kíli grinned _._

Like a flock of starlings, the Imperial Ballet’s principal dancers flew in ever-changing formations, sniping and arguing as they went. Quiet Fíli wove freely in and out of their endless contentions, rarely joining in or passing judgment. Every so often, though…

 _Making mistakes is the point of rehearsal,_ drawled Kíli, lulled by soft light and gentle steam. _It’s all so that you do it perfectly by opening night._

_I know. It was a stupid disagreement. We’ll probably have forgotten it by morning._

_Will you forget ‘Mathilde’ as well?_ Kíli inquired slyly. _Will she be ‘Matty’ again?_

Another snort. _She’d better, if she wants to be lifted higher._

Now came a great _whoosh!_ as Fíli stood up in the bath. Through the gauze, lamplight gleamed on wet skin and taut muscle. No matter how many times he beheld that vision, it always made Kíli catch his breath and sit up straight. No one else was permitted this sight. He, and he alone, knew what lay beyond the veil.

Presently Fíli emerged, wearing his towel heroically draped around his hips like a young Augustus. As he padded barefoot across the tiles, Kili reached out to draw him close. The warm aroma of sandalwood soap radiated from his bare skin, soon covered with kiss upon gentle kiss.

 _Gusinaya kozha,_ Fíli whispered, fingers twining through Kíli’s dark hair. True, he’d come out in goose pimples, but pleasurable ones, judging by the way he’d nudged his way between Kíli’s legs. With a sigh, he gave himself up to his lover’s attentions— until conscience reasserted itself.

_Kíli…_

_Yes?_

_The_ kuvshin.

A blush of empathy heated Kíli head to toe. Others might use more elegant terms, but Fíli’s choice of the homely Russian word for ‘jug’ confessed his feelings for the object he’d broken. It did not matter to him who made it, or for whose glory. He’d cherished it as none of its former owners ever had, and so its demise was something to mourn.

 _Poor Lipa,_ Kili murmured against his partner’s heart. _Let’s go take a look._

_____________

 _That fucking table,_ said Fíli, angrily reknotting the towel around his hips.

Normally Kíli found his lover’s occasional bursts of profanity amusing, but this time he did not laugh. _You were right about it all along,_ he remarked. _I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner._ He stroked the nape of Fíli’s neck, now flushed and stippled with nervous perspiration. _Come, let’s rescue the basin before the table tips again._

_I managed to catch it before it— oh, dushka, please be careful, don’t let it slip—!_

As anxious Fíli wrung his hands, Kíli carefully transferred the porcelain basin to the sturdier side-table beside its partner’s fragments. Together, the two young men surveyed the tragic remains.

 _I know it looks bad, but the breaks are clean,_ Kíli declared. _Fabergé has just taken on a craftsman who studied in the East. He knows a wonderful technique for sealing cracks in porcelain with gold. We’ll see what he says._

 _If he can fix it…_ Fíli touched the shards reverently. _I mean, it’s up to you, but it’s…_ He sighed. _It was so beautiful, Kíli; I loved it so much, even though it isn’t really mine._

 _Yes, it is!_ Kíli’s brow furrowed in dismay _. It’s absolutely yours. You_ live _here._

_But everything belongs to your family…_

True, the entirety of Liteyniy Avenue’s contents had come from the great Durinev ancestral storehouse— a veritable museum of interior design, rigorously catalogued from the largest banquet table to the smallest bibelot. Kíli and Fíli had wandered from floor to floor like a pair of explorers loose in an ancient pyramid, opening doors and choosing treasures until they were dizzy. Had Fíli really forgotten?

 _My love, we spent a whole day together, picking out all these things,_ Kili protested. _Did you think they were only on loan to you?_

 _Well…_ Fíli ducked his head. _Everything’s so fancy, and it’s all been in your family so long, I didn’t think…_

_It’s all for you. I want you to be comfortable in your new home. Are you not comfortable?_

Fíli slowly raised his eyes. _I’m used to simple things, Kili,_ he said tentatively. _I didn’t grow up with all of this._

 _Ah! But neither did I, really!_ Kíli laughed. _In our nursery, my brothers and I slept on plain hard camp beds, like little soldiers. I wasn’t even permitted a pillow until I went away to school— and the only feather mattress I’ve ever lain on is that one right there!_ He gestured to the bed they shared. _Don’t you see? I was no wiser than you, and I had just as much fun looking at the things in the storehouse, because it was_ our home _we were going to put them in!_

Fíli caught his lower lip in his teeth while he thought this over. Then: _So if I want to knock that table down again, right now?_

_Do it. We’ll take turns. And then we’ll chop it up for kindling._

_And if I want a cheap pitcher and bowl to wash my face?_

_Cheap—no. Simple, yes._ Kíli pulled Fíli against his side. _The washstand set in my room at Yerevorskiy would be perfect, if for no other reason that its table has four legs, not three._ A soft squeeze. _And then I’ll have your_ kuvshin _put back together for you. All it needs is some time, and some love._

 _That’s what fixes broken things,_ said Fíli, lifting his face for a kiss.


End file.
